


but tonight he is alive

by frougge



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Graduation, Hopeful Ending, Lee Minho | Lee Know-centric, M/M, alcohol mentions but nothing serious, from high school not college, its not entirely sad but theres like a melancholic vibe ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 11:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19084408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frougge/pseuds/frougge
Summary: If Minho concentrates, he can block out all the noise around him. He can feel silence encasing him whole, swallowing his mind and his body and his bones, all in one, leaving the space beneath him bare. He can feel the sky fall down on top of him, feel the thousands of stars buzzing at the edge of his skin, humming low lullabies into his ears and tapping the rhythm out on his skin.





	but tonight he is alive

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from the two-headed calf by laura gilpin which you've definitely seen on tumblr if you used it at least once in the past month so like . yeah
> 
> this isn't beta read so like. big sorry for any typos or anything hehe B) . anyways this is a product of both my procrastinating from making my college decision and projecting so its like a funky 2 in 1 type deal . personally i think that shit rox anyone else who hates college lets get this gay bread 
> 
> there's a small playlist for this au [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/teacactus/playlist/2ahJNE0qeCh1yJhoAldMfG?si=TYNjpVQZQliMfpHxayEp8Q) and its just hte songs i listened to as i vibrated at the speed of light to write this . hellz yeah

If Minho concentrates, he can block out all the noise around him. He can feel silence encasing him whole, swallowing his mind and his body and his bones, all in one, leaving the space beneath him bare. He can feel the sky fall down on top of him, feel the thousands of stars buzzing at the edge of his skin, humming low lullabies into his ears and tapping the rhythm out on his skin.

He can feel time run to a stop, can feel everything around him stilling to ensure that nothing changes, to ensure that none of his worries come to fruition, that none of his nightmares continue to unravel, that everything stays the exact same as it is now.

The moment his concentration falters, though, the illusion breaks.

The reality of the situation breaks over the top of his head as the notes of his friends’ conversations tear through his thoughts. He blinks, once, twice, thrice, letting his dreams and wishes rinse themselves off his shoulders, straight into the mud underneath the swing he’s sitting on.

The reality of the situation breaks over the top of his head and he stares down at his feet, his hands folded neatly in his lap as he slowly pushes himself back and forth. There’s something he can’t pinpoint swirling in his mind, accumulating in his bones and making them so, so heavy that he can barely move. It’s making everything feel distant from him, forcing him to retreat into a small corner of himself even though he’s with his friends, even though he’s supposed to be having fun, even though everything’s okay.

He thinks that part of the reason why it’s like this is because he’s scared of everything changing. He wants every part of life to remain stagnant, to remain the way it was earlier. He doesn’t want to go to some college and study some course he doesn’t care about, doesn’t want to grow older and leave everything behind, doesn’t want to grow apart from his friends and lose contact, maybe because it’s hard when everything’s long distance or maybe because it was never too strong in the first place or maybe because he’s not someone his friends would want to keep contact with or maybe because—

“—hey.”

Minho lifts his head, catching Jisung’s eyes as he falls into the second swing naturally, hands curling around the chains, his feet immediately pushing him back softly, as if it’s second nature.

“Hey,” Minho says, forcing a smile. He catches the way Jisung’s brows twitch, almost, itching to furrow, the way his grin falters as he senses just how off Minho feels. “Got tired of shooting vodka with the bros?”

“No one’s shooting vodka, you loser,” Jisung says, “we’re, like, grown-ups, now. Strictly drinking cider and cheap wine.”

Minho nods, off-handedly, his gaze returning to his hands. He fiddles with them, slowly, because he’s just in that space where he’s a bit touch starved, maybe, a bit in need of affection to cool his mind, to cool his brain, to help him down from whatever storm’s holding the reigns of all his negative thoughts. He wants so desperately to hold Jisung’s hand, to have him squeeze Minho’s hand in between his own, to have him tell Minho that everything’s going to be okay, that everything will figure itself out, that despite everything changing, they’re still going to be close, even as the distance between them grows.

He wants, he wants, he wants, but he’s got no clue how to convey that without looking like a clown, without looking like an idiot, without feeling the seeds of regret bloom in his heart because it probably sounds so, so stupid. He’s got no clue how to convey it so he doesn’t say anything, simply lets them sit in silence, broken only by the scuffling of their feet against the dirt and their friends’ laughter in the background.

“Speaking of,” Jisung says, holding up a glass bottle. It’s apple cider, just the brand that Minho likes, sweet and bitter enough to not be overbearing. “Do you want some? Had to wrestle this from Changbin, who’s a winephobe, apparently— _or_ a pinkphobe, maybe, because bitch would not step within five feet of the rosé Hyunjin bought.”

“It’s the homophobia,” Minho says, “you know, from the haircut and all, and also because he’s a twunk. I think all twunks are homophobes.”

“Honestly, yeah, yeah,” Jisung says, “so—you want her? One hundred percent yes?”

“I—yeah,” he says and Jisung hands him the bottle of cider. Minho twists the cap off, slipping it in his pocket because he’s sure Woojin would bite his head off if he caught him littering, and takes a sip.

He hadn’t wanted to drink, because—well. He’s usually fine if he gets a bit tipsy, a bit unsteady on his feet, his laughter rising higher and higher. He’s usually fine, but with everything going around, with everything that’s currently pulsing in his brain, he doesn’t think he’d be fine. It’s happened more than once, now, that he’s hung around with Hyunjin, drinking cider or beer or anything at hand, really, feeling terrible and completely wrecked, and the feeling only magnified with each bottle, with each sip that passed through his mouth.

Minho doesn’t want that to happen now, because he’s supposed to be happy. It’s supposed to be a happy night because they’ve just graduated, a few days ago, and they’re supposed to be celebrating, they’re supposed to be having a good time, and Minho can’t get into it. He can’t get into it because he can’t stop his brain from running, from thinking the future, from thinking about everything that could go wrong, everything that might not work out, everything that might happen to ruin the connections he has to his friends now.

He hadn’t wanted to drink but it’s cider, after all. He’s not going to get drunk off of just one bottle and whatever buzz he’ll get from it might just prove him wrong, maybe, might dull his mind, might stop the wheels that are making his brain turn.

“Anyway,” Jisung says, after a moment, trying for casual but sounding very worried, “everything okay? You’re kinda—hm, uh, well, you know.”

“I’m just big horny for swings right now,” Minho says, then, at Jisung’s look, adds, “everything’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about, really.”

That’s—not true, to put it lightly.

There’s just something so incredibly difficult in saying _no,_ in saying _everything’s not fine,_ in saying _i’m not feeling great_ or _i don’t know why but i just want so badly to cry._ There’s something so incredibly difficult about being vulnerable, about letting anyone know that something’s not right even when it’s so clearly visible to them. He—the only person he allows himself to be vulnerable with is Hyunjin, who he’s known the longest, and even that’s rare.

He knows, somewhere, in the back of his mind, that Jisung would offer to hear him out. That Jisung would offer to listen, to guide him through whatever he’s feeling—or try to help him, at least, as much as he can. He knows that Jisung would hold him close if he asked, that he’d squeeze his hand as much as possible, that he’d help Minho realize that everything will be fine, no matter what happens, but it’s so impossibly hard to follow through and open the dams, to let his feelings and thoughts and insecurities out into the open.

Because—because once it’s out there, he can’t take it back. Once it’s out there, he can’t say _everything’s fine,_ can’t put on the façade he’s been living with for the longest time, can’t pretend his mind isn’t turning and thinking of every terrible thing that might happen.

Once it’s out there, he can’t take it back, and he doesn’t know how he’d handle that.

“Are you sure?” Jisung asks, not unkindly.

Minho hesitates. He could—he could say it now, he could, he could, but who’s to say what Jisung’s reaction would be? Maybe he’d be offended that Minho’s even worrying about these things, that he’s worrying about how close they might be or might not be, about how life might change for them. Maybe he’d be offended that Minho’s worried that in five, in ten, in fifteen years they’ll be nothing to each other but a distant, albeit fond memory. That in five, in ten, in fifteen years, Minho’ll stumble upon a particular book or movie or anything, really, that falls right into Jisung’s taste, and instead of thinking _oh, Jisung would like that,_ he’ll be thinking _oh, I wonder if Jisung still likes things like this_ or even _I wonder what Jisung’s doing right now_ or maybe something that’s not even related to Jisung in the slightest.

That in five, in ten, in fifteen years, Minho’ll be flipping through his old yearbook or going through his box of memorabilia and he’ll stumble across a photo of him with Jisung, and he’ll drag his fingers down Jisung’s figure, slowly, trying to wonder what they could have been or what happened to make them drift apart or what he did wrong to make Jisung disinterest in him.

“I’m sure,” he says, biting his tongue, because maybe if he lets his thoughts out, that’s going to make it easier for them to come true. “Seriously, don’t worry. I’ve literally never been better.”

Jisung hums in response, stilling himself before he swings from side to side to knock into Minho, making the swings creak under their forms, making Minho laugh as his swing twists and he has to use his legs to brake.

“What was that for?” He asks, even as he laughs and pushes Jisung’s shoulder, making him swing uncontrollably. “You could have made me spill my cider, and you _know_ I would have conked you over the head for that.”

“Sounds sexy,” Jisung says and Minho can’t stop himself from mirroring his smile. Their swings slow down to a stop and Jisung reaches to grasp onto Minho’s hand, intertwining their fingers together slowly, rubbing his thumb over Minho’s knuckles. “If, you know, if something was ever, uh, not okay—or if you just wanted to talk, you always have me, yeah? To talk to, to be there for you. To even just hear you out, if you only need to vent or rant or whatever. I’m going to be here for you. Always.”

Minho swallows, unable to keep up the eye contact and letting his eyes trace the movement of Jisung’s thumb. It’s hard not to let his mind question the _always,_ because who’s Jisung to know that? Who’s Jisung to know they won’t drift away within a year or two or five or maybe even just a few months? Who’s Jisung to know that they won’t rip the contract between them because of an argument or a fight or because of something, something small but big enough to end everything between them?

It’s hard not to let his mind question the _always,_ but the least he can do is postpone that until he’s alone in his room, staring at his ceiling, trying very hard not to cry as his thoughts roll over his brain with no filter, with nothing to combat them with.

“Thank you,” he says, his mouth dry, the words barely lifting off his tongue. “The same applies to you, too, you know.”

“Yeah,” Jisung muses, and his voice is just quiet enough for Minho to hear. He sighs, squeezing Minho’s hand, letting the silence settle before he speaks again. “There’s this one place, a few streets away.”

“What place?” Minho asks and Jisung huffs, grinning under his breath.

“It’s—this diner,” he says, “that’s open around the clock and there’s this like, really ugly neon sign right above the entrance, too, but I think it’d go right up your alley—”

“—because it’s really ugly?”

“Because it’s the kind of thing you like,” Jisung says, “it’s flashy, a bit kitschy, maybe, but it’s—well, I guess a bit homely.”

“Are you trying to suggest my taste in decor is flashy and kitschy and just, you know, ugly as shit?” Minho says, scrunching up his nose, “thanks.”

“I mean homely as in, well, homely,” Jisung says, rolls his eyes even as laughter marks his words, “as in nice. As in reminds you of home, I guess. I’m not trying to insult you at every step, you know.”

Minho raises his eyebrows at him and Jisung just shakes his head, mock annoyed.

“Anyway, the point is,” Jisung says, “I was thinking we could go there? They strictly serve breakfast foods and like, you’re always horny for a waffle or pancake, aren’t you? There’s even very bitter, very disgusting coffee that you can pour half a bottle of creamer into, in case you get bored.”

“I see you thought of everything,” Minho says, even though his heart threatens to burst. It’s stupid to feel so soft over such a little thing, maybe, but it’s—it’s nice, that Jisung thought of him.

“Yeah,” Jisung says, “so, do you want to go there?”

Minho blinks at him.

“Wait,” he says, “you mean like, right now? In this moment?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s almost one am,” Minho says, “you want to go to a breakfast diner right now? And—and, besides, we’re with company, if you haven’t noticed, and we can’t just leave.”

“They’ll be fine,” Jisung says, waving his free hand. “They’re big boys, now, which means we can just tell them and leave.”

“I—yeah, I guess,” Minho says. Jisung’s thumb stills over his skin, softly, before it resumes its movements, slower this time.

“We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to,” Jisung says, “I just thought it might be nice. I—well, the diner’s a place I drop by, every once in a while. It’s not the best, maybe, but the neon lights and the homely decor works wonders for whenever I’m feeling down. Plus the waffles are like, really fucking good.”

Minho smiles, softly, the corners of his lips tugging up despite himself.

“The waffles are really fucking good,” he echoes, pushing his heart deeper into his chest to ignore the way it spasms, hoping it suffocates and that he never feels a single thing ever again. “We can go, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Jisung says, grinning. “Now, come on, let’s hurry before they close.”

“You said they’re open around the clock,” Minho points out, even as he lets Jisung drag him up.

They’re still holding hands, Jisung’s grip tight and unwavering, and it’s nice. It feels almost like an anchor, making sure Minho’s thoughts don’t stray as they usually do, making sure they remain in the present, making sure he doesn’t let himself overthink everything, making sure he doesn’t drive himself mad. It’s nice.

“I might be wrong,” Jisung says, “my memory might be faulty. I’m not great with these things, you know.”

“I can tell,” Minho says, knocking his shoulder into Jisung’s, preening at the way Jisung grins at him, then, wide and happy and so, so kind, and he’s able to convince himself that everything will be fine.

He’s able to convince himself that everything will be fine, because Jisung’s at his side, holding his hand, taking him to some shitty diner to do nothing in particular. Because now, it feels like it’d be impossible to drag them apart, because it feels like Minho and Jisung both would do everything in their power to keep the universe from ripping them apart or maybe that they’d find their way back to one another despite it all.

He’s able to convince himself that everything will be fine, because in that moment, as Jisung’s smiling at him, outshining all the stars in the sky, his grip just tight enough on Minho’s hand, everything is fine.

They stop, briefly, by Woojin—deemed the most responsible one out of all of them, as well as the only one who has more than one functioning synapse—to tell him they’re leaving and he just smiles at them, bidding them well, letting them leave their empty bottles with him to throw out later.

The lights shine so brightly on the empty streets and although they’re relatively quiet, their voices still rise up the buildings, scale up their sides and burst out into the roofs, competing with the stars and moon and everything in between them and the sky. Jisung keeps himself impossibly close to Minho, squeezing his hand and muttering half-assed one liners and puns, his breath warm on Minho’s skin as he still somehow makes Minho laugh, loudly.

It’s—in this moment, it’s easy to forget that everything’s going to change. It’s easy to forget that things aren’t going to be as they used to, that they’re not going to see each other everyday, that they might—probably will, really, if Minho thinks about it for long enough—grow further and further apart until they stop messaging each other, once and for all. It’s easy to forget that this won’t be typical, in the future, that Jisung won’t drag him at one am to some diner, won’t make him laugh this loud in the middle of the night, won’t as close to him as he is, right now.

But—it’s also easy to think that, with Jisung’s bright smile and the way his eyes shine as he looks at Minho, they won’t grow as apart as Minho thinks they will. It’s easy to think that they’ll make it through, somehow, that they’ll make it work, that in five, ten, fifteen years, Minho will still be talking to Jisung, will still think of him when he sees movies or books that are perfect for Jisung, that they’ll still be close.

It’s even easier to think that as Jisung drags him into the same side of one booth in the diner and they order some waffles to share and pancakes to try, for good measure, as they order coffee and Jisung shakes his head, fondly, as Minho adds too much sugar. It’s even easier to think that as the conversation slows between them and Jisung still rubs his finger over Minho’s knuckles, as they leave the diner in the early hours of the morning and Jisung takes him to his home, stopping in front of the entrance.

It’s easiest to think that when Jisung’s fingers tap on Minho’s skin, pulling him close, sliding over his cheek before he kisses him, softly, all his feelings and affections and love, maybe, on display, and Minho kisses back, because what does he have to lose?

Everything, his mind supplies, but, for once, he doesn’t let himself dwell on it, pushing the thought down and down until it disappears from his mind completely. 

“Today was nice,” Minho says, because saying _thank you for helping me feel better_ feels a bit too sincere, a bit too vulnerable, a bit too honest, because it feels like he’ll have to explain why he felt bad in the first place. He holds onto Jisung’s hand, hoping it conveys everything he feels, hoping Jisung understands.

He seems to, with the way he smiles at Minho.

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes tracing Minho’s face, his fingers soft on Minho’s skin. “Thought you didn’t like the diner, with the amount of times you complained.”

“I didn’t complain,” Minho protests, even though he did. “I gave constructive criticisms, which I think is fair.”

“Sure,” Jisung says. “Still—we should do it again, sometime? Maybe a bit earlier, or something, like, uh, you know.”

“A real date?” Minho suggests. His heart is beating terribly fast in his chest, breaking through his ribs and about to tear apart his skin before Jisung nods, making Minho bite back a smile. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’d like that.”

“I’d like that, too,” Jisung says, squeezing Minho’s hand before he presses a brief kiss to Minho’s forehead. “I do have to get going, but expect like, a hot message or something when I wake up in however many hours, yeah?”

“I’ll be waiting,” Minho promises, unable to stop a smile when Jisung kisses his cheek, giving his hand one last squeeze before he lets go and starts to walk away.

Minho stands there, watching Jisung—watching him glance back, once, twice, throwing up a small finger heart both times, before he disappears around the corner. He feels his thoughts sinking back into his mind, slowly, feels them pulse, but he closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath.

Maybe—maybe they will lose contact. Maybe they won’t be as close as they are now, maybe they won’t talk to each other, maybe Jisung will no longer be able to make Minho feel as safe, as comfortable, as loved as he does now or vice versa. Maybe in five, ten, fifteen years, Jisung will be to Minho nothing but a fond memory, someone to remember, someone that comes to mind when he thinks of his youth, of his high school years, when he thinks of what it was like, once.

Or—maybe none of that will happen.

Maybe they’ll grow closer, instead, maybe they’ll try hard to keep up contact and will succeed despite all odds, maybe they’ll end up together till the end of time, moving in together and getting married in the middle of the night for no reason at all. Maybe they’ll own a number of cats and Jisung will pretend to complain even though he’ll love it just as much as Minho will, and they’ll love each other even more than they do now. Maybe they’ll get a small house one day and grow old together and have a garden with flowers and vegetables and have their friends visit and be that annoying couple that doesn’t shut up. Maybe things will just keep getting better and better and better, making Minho’s heart feel fuller and fuller and fuller until it’s ready to burst.

Maybe, or maybe not—it’s impossible to tell now, when they’re still young, when they’ve just graduated high school, with the whole world at their feet. It’s impossible to tell and it will be, Minho thinks, but the thought seems less scary than it was a few hours ago.

It’s impossible to tell what will happen, what will happen to him, what will happen to them, but Minho knows they’ll try their hardest to not grow apart, to make it work. Minho knows and that comforts him, wraps itself around him and grasps his hand in the same way Jisung had, makes him feel better.

It’s impossible to tell what will happen and there’s no sense worrying about it, not now, when he’s got the whole summer ahead of him, not now, when they’re still as close as can be. Even so, whatever happens, he’s sure that everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> hope u enjoyed !!!! 
> 
> come say hi on [twitter](https://twitter.com/frouggyu)!!!


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